Idylls of the King

LANCELOT AND ELAINE

Elaine the fair, Elaine the loveable, Elaine, the lily maid of Astolat, High in her chamber up a tower to the eastGuarded the sacred shield of Lancelot;Which first she placed where morning's earliest rayMight strike it, and awake her with the gleam;

Then fearing rust or soilure fashion'd for itA case of silk, and braided thereuponAll the devices blazon'd on the shieldIn their own tinct, and added, of her wit,A border fantasy of branch and flower,And yellow-throated nestling in the nest.Nor rested thus content, but day by day,Leaving her household and good father, climb'dThat eastern tower, and entering barr'd her door,Stript off the case, and read the naked shield,Now guess'd a hidden meaning in his arms,Now made a pretty history to herselfOf every dint a sword had beaten in it,And every scratch a lance had made upon it,Conjecturing when and where: this cut is fresh;That ten years back; this dealt him at Caerlyle;That at Caerleon; this at Camelot:And ah God's mercy, what a stroke was there!And here a thrust that might have kill'd, but GodBroke the strong lance, and roll'd his enemy downAnd saved him: so she lived in fantasy.

How came the lily maid by that good shieldOf Lancelot, she that knew not ev'n his name?He left it with her, when he rode to tiltFor the great diamond in the diamond jousts,Which Arthur had ordain'd, and by that nameHad named them, since a diamond was the prize.

For Arthur, long before they crown'd him King,Roving the trackless realms of Lyonesse,Had found a glen, gray boulder and black tarn.A horror lived about the tarn, and claveLike its own mists to all the mountain side:For here two brothers, one a king, had metAnd fought together; but their names were lost;And each had slain his brother at a blow;And down they fell and made the glen abhorr'd:And there they lay till all their bones were bleach'd,And lichen'd into colour with the crags:And he, that once was king, had on a crownOf diamonds, one in front, and four aside.And Arthur came, and labouring up the pass, All in a misty moonshine, unawaresHad trodden that crown'd skeleton, and the skullBrake from the nape, and from the skull the crownRoll'd into light, and turning on its rimsFled like a glittering rivulet to the tarn:And down the shingly scaur he plunged, and caught,And set it on his head, and in his heartHeard murmurs, "Lo, thou likewise shalt be King."

Thereafter, when a King, he had the gemsPluck'd from the crown, and show'd them to his knights,Saying, "These jewels, whereupon I chancedDivinely, are the kingdom's, not the King's--For public use: henceforward let there be,Once every year, a joust for one of these:For so by nine years' proof we needs must learnWhich is our mightiest, and ourselves shall grow

In use of arms and manhood, till we driveThe heathen, who, some say, shall rule the landHereafter, which God hinder." Thus he spoke:And eight years past, eight jousts had been, and stillHad Lancelot won the diamond of the year,With purpose to present them to the Queen,When all were won; but meaning all at onceTo snare her royal fancy with a boonWorth half her realm, had never spoken word.

Now for the central diamond and the lastAnd largest, Arthur, holding then his courtHard on the river nigh the place which nowIs this world's hugest, let proclaim a joustAt Camelot, and when the time drew nighSpake (for she had been sick) to Guinevere,"Are you so sick, my Queen, you cannot moveTo these fair jousts?" "Yea, lord," she said, "ye know it.""Then will ye miss," he answer'd, "the great deeds Of Lancelot, and his prowess in the lists,A sight ye love to look on." And the QueenLifted her eyes, and they dwelt languidlyOn Lancelot, where he stood beside the King.He thinking that he read her meaning there,"Stay with me, I am sick; my love is moreThan many diamonds," yielded; and a heartLove-loyal to the least wish of the Queen(However much he yearn'd to make completeThe tale of diamonds for his destined boon)Urged him to speak against the truth, and say,"Sir King, mine ancient wound is hardly whole,And lets me from the saddle;" and the KingGlanced first at him, then her, and went his way.No sooner gone than suddenly she began:

"To blame, my lord Sir Lancelot, much to blame!Why go ye not to these fair jousts? the knightsAre half of them our enemies, and the crowdWill murmur, 'Lo the shameless ones, who takeTheir pastime now the trustful King is gone!'"Then Lancelot vext at having lied in vain:"Are ye so wise? ye were not once so wise,My Queen, that summer, when ye loved me first.Then of the crowd ye took no more accountThan of the myriad cricket of the mead,When its own voice clings to each blade of grass,And every voice is nothing. As to knights,Them surely can I silence with all ease.But now my loyal worship is allow'dOf all men: many a bard, without offence,Has link'd our names together in his lay,Lancelot, the flower of bravery, Guinevere,The pearl of beauty: and our knights at feastHave pledged us in this union, while the KingWould listen smiling. How then? is there more?Has Arthur spoken aught? or would yourselfNow weary of my service and devoir,Henceforth be truer to your faultless lord?"

She broke into a little scornful laugh:"Arthur, my lord, Arthur, the faultless King,That passionate perfection, my good lord--But who can gaze upon the Sun in heaven?He never spake word of reproach to me,He never had a glimpse of mine untruth,He cares not for me: only here to-dayThere gleam'd a vague suspicion in his eyes:Some meddling rogue has tamper'd with him--elseRapt in this fancy of his Table Round,And swearing men to vows impossible,To make them like himself: but, friend, to meHe is all fault who hath no fault at all:For who loves me must have a touch of earth;The low sun makes the colour: I am yours,Not Arthur's, as ye know, save by the bond.And therefore hear my words: go to the jousts:The tiny-trumpeting gnat can break our dreamWhen sweetest; and the vermin voices hereMay buzz so loud--we scorn them, but they sting."

Then answer'd Lancelot, the chief of knights:"And with what face, after my pretext made,Shall I appear, O Queen, at Camelot, IBefore a King who honours his own word,As if it were his God's?"

"Yea," said the Queen,"A moral child without the craft to rule,Else had he not lost me: but listen to me,If I must find you wit: we hear it saidThat men go down before your spear at a touch,But knowing you are Lancelot; your great name,This conquers: hide it therefore; go unknown:Win! by this kiss you will: and our true KingWill then allow your pretext, O my knight,As all for glory; for to speak him true,Ye know right well, how meek soe'er he seem,No keener hunter after glory breathes.He loves it in his knights more than himself:They prove to him his work: win and return."

Then got Sir Lancelot suddenly to horse,Wroth at himself. Not willing to be known,He left the barren-beaten thoroughfare,Chose the green path that show'd the rarer foot,And there among the solitary downs,Full often lost in fancy, lost his way;Till as he traced a faintly shadow'd track,That all in loops and links among the dalesRan to the Castle of Astolat, he sawFired from the west, far on a hill, the towers.Thither he made, and blew the gateway horn.Then came an old, dumb, myriad-wrinkled man,Who let him into lodging and disarm'd.And Lancelot marvell'd at the wordless man;And issuing found the Lord of AstolatWith two strong sons, Sir Torre and Sir Lavaine,Moving to meet him in the castle court;And close behind them stept the lily maidElaine, his daughter: mother of the houseThere was not: some light jest among them roseWith laughter dying down as the great knightApproach'd them: then the Lord of Astolat:"Whence comest thou, my guest, and by what nameLivest between the lips? for by thy stateAnd presence I might guess thee chief of those,After the King, who eat in Arthur's halls.Him have I seen: the rest, his Table Round,Known as they are, to me they are unknown."

Then answer'd Lancelot, the chief of knights:"Known am I, and of Arthur's hall, and known,What I by mere mischance have brought, my shield.But since I go to joust as one unknownAt Camelot for the diamond, ask me not,Hereafter ye shall know me--and the shield--I pray you lend me one, if such you have,Blank, or at least with some device not mine."

Then said the Lord of Astolat, "Here is Torre's:Hurt in his first tilt was my son, Sir Torre.And so, God wot, his shield is blank enough.His ye can have." Then added plain Sir Torre,"Yea, since I cannot use it, ye may have it."Here laugh'd the father saying, "Fie, Sir Churl,Is that an answer for a noble knight?Allow him! but Lavaine, my younger hereHe is so full of lustihood, he will ride,Joust for it, and win, and bring it in an hour,And set it in this damsel's golden hair,To make her thrice as wilful as before."

"Nay, father, nay good father, shame me notBefore this noble knight," said young Lavaine,"For nothing. Surely I but play'd on Torre:He seem'd so sullen, vext he could not go:A jest, no more! for, knight, the maiden dreamtThat some one put this diamond in her hand,And that it was too slippery to be held,And slipt and fell into some pool or stream,The castle-well, belike; and then I saidThat if I went and if I fought and won it(But all was jest and joke among ourselves)Then must she keep it safelier. All was jest.But, father, give me leave, an if he will,To ride to Camelot with this noble knight:Win shall I not, but do my best to win:Young as I am, yet would I do my best."

"So ye will grace me," answer'd Lancelot,Smiling a moment, "with your fellowshipO'er these waste downs whereon I lost myself,Then were I glad of you as guide and friend:And you shall win this diamond,--as I hearIt is a fair large diamond,--if ye may,And yield it to this maiden, if ye will.""A fair large diamond," added plain Sir Torre,"Such be for queens, and not for simple maids."Then she, who held her eyes upon the ground,Elaine, and heard her name so tost about,Flush'd slightly at the slight disparagementBefore the stranger knight, who, looking at her,Full courtly, yet not falsely, thus return'd:"If what is fair be but for what is fair,And only queens are to be counted so,Rash were my judgment then, who deem this maidMight wear as fair a jewel as is on earth,Not violating the bond of like to like."

He spoke and ceased: the lily maid Elaine,Won by the mellow voice before she look'd,Lifted her eyes, and read his lineaments.The great and guilty love he bare the Queen,In battle with the love he bare his lord,Had marr'd his face, and mark'd it ere his time.Another sinning on such heights with one,The flower of all the west and all the world,Had been the sleeker for it: but in himHis mood was often like a fiend, and roseAnd drove him into wastes and solitudesFor agony, who was yet a living soul.Marr'd as he was, he seem'd the goodliest manThat ever among ladies ate in hall,And noblest, when she lifted up her eyes.However marr'd, of more than twice her years,Seam'd with an ancient swordcut on the cheek,And bruised and bronzed, she lifted up her eyesAnd loved him, with that love which was her doom.

Then the great knight, the darling of the court,Loved of the loveliest, into that rude hallStept with all grace, and not with half disdainHid under grace, as in a smaller time,But kindly man moving among his kind:Whom they with meats and vintage of their bestAnd talk and minstrel melody entertain'd,And much they ask'd of court and Table Round,And ever well and readily answer'd he:But Lancelot, when they glanced at Guinevere,Suddenly speaking of the wordless man,Heard from the Baron that, ten years before,The heathen caught and reft him of his tongue."He learnt and warn'd me of their fierce designAgainst my house, and him they caught and maim'd;But I, my sons, and little daughter fledFrom bonds or death, and dwelt among the woodsBy the great river in a boatman's hut.Dull days were those, till our good Arthur brokeThe Pagan yet once more on Badon hill."

"O there, great lord, doubtless," Lavaine said, rapt By all the sweet and sudden passion of youthToward greatness in its elder, "you have fought.O tell us--for we live apart--you knowOf Arthur's glorious wars." And Lancelot spokeAnd answer'd him at full, as having beenWith Arthur in the fight which all day longRang by the white mouth of the violent Glem;And in the four loud battles by the shoreOf Duglas; that on Bassa; then the warThat thunder'd in and out the gloomy skirtsOf Celidon the forest; and againBy castle Gurnion, where the glorious King

Had on his cuirass worn our Lady's Head,Carved of one emerald center'd in a sunOf silver rays, that lighten'd as he breathed;And at Caerleon had he help'd his lord,When the strong neighings of the wild White HorseSet every gilded parapet shuddering;And up in Agned-Cathregonion too,And down the waste sand-shores of Trath Treroit,Where many a heathen fell; "and on the mountOf Badon I myself beheld the KingCharge at the head of all his Table Round,And all his legions crying Christ and him,And break them; and I saw him, after, standHigh on a heap of slain, from spur to plumeRed as the rising sun with heathen blood,And seeing me, with a great voice he cried,'They are broken, they are broken!' for the King,However mild he seems at home, nor caresFor triumph in our mimic wars, the jousts--For if his own knight cast him down, he laughsSaying, his knights are better men than he--Yet in this heathen war the fire of GodFills him: I never saw his like: there livesNo greater leader."

While he utter'd this,Low to her own heart said the lily maid,"Save your great self, fair lord;" and when he fell From talk of war to traits of pleasantry--Being mirthful he, but in a stately kind--She still took note that when the living smileDied from his lips, across him came a cloudOf melancholy severe, from which again,Whenever in her hovering to and froThe lily maid had striven to make him cheer,There brake a sudden-beaming tendernessOf manners and of nature: and she thoughtThat all was nature, all, perchance, for her.And all night long his face before her lived,As when a painter, poring on a face,Divinely thro' all hindrance finds the manBehind it, and so paints him that his face,The shape and colour of a mind and life,Lives for his children, ever at its bestAnd fullest; so the face before her lived,Dark-splendid, speaking in the silence, fullOf noble things, and held her from her sleep.Till rathe she rose, half-cheated in the thoughtShe needs must bid farewell to sweet Lavaine.First as in fear, step after step, she stoleDown the long tower-stairs, hesitating:Anon, she heard Sir Lancelot cry in the court,"This shield, my friend, where is it?" and LavainePast inward, as she came from out the tower.There to his proud horse Lancelot turn'd, and smooth'dThe glossy shoulder, humming to himself.Half-envious of the flattering hand, she drewNearer and stood. He look'd, and more amazedThan if seven men had set upon him, sawThe maiden standing in the dewy light.He had not dream'd she was so beautiful.Then came on him a sort of sacred fear,For silent, tho' he greeted her, she stoodRapt on his face as if it were a God's.Suddenly flash'd on her a wild desire,That he should wear her favour at the tilt.She braved a riotous heart in asking for it."Fair lord, whose name I know not--noble it is,

I well believe, the noblest--will you wearMy favour at this tourney?" "Nay," said he,"Fair lady, since I never yet have wornFavour of any lady in the lists.Such is my wont, as those, who know me, know.""Yea, so," she answer'd; "then in wearing mine Needs must be lesser likelihood, noble lord,That those who know should know you." And he turn'dHer counsel up and down within his mind,And found it true, and answer'd, "True, my child.Well, I will wear it: fetch it out to me:What is it?" and she told him "A red sleeveBroider'd with pearls," and brought it: then he boundHer token on his helmet, with a smileSaying, "I never yet have done so muchFor any maiden living," and the bloodSprang to her face and fill'd her with delight;But left her all the paler, when LavaineReturning brought the yet-unblazon'd shield,His brother's; which he gave to Lancelot,Who parted with his own to fair Elaine:"Do me this grace, my child, to have my shieldIn keeping till I come." "A grace to me,"She answer'd, "twice to-day. I am your squire!"Whereat Lavaine said, laughing, "Lily maid,For fear our people call you lily maidIn earnest, let me bring your colour back;Once, twice, and thrice: now get you hence to bed:"So kiss'd her, and Sir Lancelot his own hand,And thus they moved away: she stay'd a minute,Then made a sudden step to the gate, and there--Her bright hair blown about the serious faceYet rosy-kindled with her brother's kiss--Paused by the gateway, standing near the shieldIn silence, while she watch'd their arms far-offSparkle, until they dipt below the downs.Then to her tower she climb'd, and took the shield,There kept it, and so lived in fantasy.

Meanwhile the new companions past awayFar o'er the long backs of the bushless downs,To where Sir Lancelot knew there lived a knightNot far from Camelot, now for forty yearsA hermit, who had pray'd, labour'd and pray'd,And ever labouring had scoop'd himselfIn the white rock a chapel and a hallOn massive columns, like a shorecliff cave,And cells and chambers: all were fair and dry;The green light from the meadows underneathStruck up and lived along the milky roofs;And in the meadows tremulous aspen-treesAnd poplars made a noise of falling showers.And thither wending there that night they bode.

But when the next day broke from underground,And shot red fire and shadows thro' the cave,They rose, heard mass, broke fast, and rode away:Then Lancelot saying, "Hear, but hold my nameHidden, you ride with Lancelot of the Lake,"Abash'd Lavaine, whose instant reverence,Dearer to true young hearts than their own praise,But left him leave to stammer, "Is it indeed?"And after muttering "The great Lancelot,"At last he got his breath and answer'd, "One,One have I seen--that other, our liege lord,The dread Pendragon, Britains King of kings,Of whom the people talk mysteriously,He will be there--then were I stricken blindThat minute, I might say that I had seen."

So spake Lavaine, and when they reach'd the listsBy Camelot in the meadow, let his eyesRun thro' the peopled gallery which half roundLay like a rainbow fall'n upon the grass,Until they found the clear-faced King, who satRobed in red samite, easily to be known,Since to his crown the golden dragon clung,And down his robe the dragon writhed in gold,And from the carven work behind him creptTwo dragons gilded, sloping down to makeArms for his chair, while all the rest of themThro' knots and loops and folds innumerableFled ever thro' the woodwork, till they foundThe new design wherein they lost themselves,Yet with all ease, so tender was the work:And, in the costly canopy o'er him set,Blazed the last diamond of the nameless king.

Then Lancelot answer'd young Lavaine and said,"Me you call great: mine is the firmer seat,The truer lance: but there is many a youthNow crescent, who will come to all I amAnd overcome it; and in me there dwellsNo greatness, save it be some far-off touchOf greatness to know well I am not great:There is the man." And Lavaine gaped upon himAs on a thing miraculous, and anonThe trumpets blew; and then did either side,They that assail'd, and they that held the lists,Set lance in rest, strike spur, suddenly move,Meet in the midst, and there so furiouslyShock, that a man far-off might well perceive,If any man that day were left afield,The hard earth shake, and a low thunder of arms.And Lancelot bode a little, till he sawWhich were the weaker; then he hurl'd into itAgainst the stronger. Little need to speakOf Lancelot in his glory! King, duke, earl,Count, baron--whom he smote, he overthrew.

But in the field were Lancelot's kith and kin,Ranged with the Table Round that held the lists,Strong men, and wrathful that a stranger knightShould do and almost overdo the deedsOf Lancelot; and one said to the other, "Lo!What is he? I do not mean the force alone--The grace and versatility of the man!Is it not Lancelot?" "When has Lancelot wornFavour of any lady in the lists?Not such his wont, as we, that know him, know.""How then? who then?" a fury seized them all,A fiery family passion for the nameOf Lancelot, and a glory one with theirs.They couch'd their spears and prick'd their steeds, and thusTheir plumes driv'n backward by the wind they madeIn moving, all together down upon himBare, as a wild wave in the wide North-sea.Green-glimmering toward the summit, bears with allIts stormy crests that smoke against the skies,Down on a bark, and overbears the bark,And him that helms it, so they overboreSir Lancelot and his charger, and a spearDown-glancing lamed the charger, and a spearPrick'd sharply his own cuirass, and the headPierced thro' his side, and there snapt, and remain'd.

Then Sir Lavaine did well and worshipfully;He bore a knight of old repute to the earth,And brought his horse to Lancelot where he lay.He up the side, sweating with agony, gotBut thought to do while he might yet endure,And being lustily holpen by the rest,His party,--tho' it seem'd half-miracleTo those he fought with,--drave his kith and kin,And all the Table Round that held the lists,Back to the barrier; then the trumpets blewProclaiming his the prize, who wore the sleeveOf scarlet, and the pearls; and all the knights,His party, cried "Advance and take thy prizeThe diamond;" but he answer'd, "Diamond meNo diamonds! for God's love, a little air!Prize me no prizes, for my prize is death!Hence will I, and I charge you, follow me not."

He spoke, and vanish'd suddenly from the fieldWith young Lavaine into the poplar grove.There from his charger down he slid, and sat,Gasping to Sir Lavaine, "Draw the lancehead:""Ah my sweet lord Sir Lancelot," said Lavaine,"I dread me, if I draw it, you will die."But he, "I die already with it: draw--Draw,"--and Lavaine drew, and Sir Lancelot gaveA marvellous great shriek and ghastly groan,And half his blood burst forth, and down he sankFor the pure pain, and wholly swoon'd away.Then came the hermit out and bare him in,There stanch'd his wound; and there, in daily doubtWhether to live or die, for many a weekHid from the wide world's rumour by the groveOf poplars with their noise of falling showers,And ever-tremulous aspen-trees, he lay.

But on that day when Lancelot fled the lists,His party, knights of utmost North and West,Lords of waste marches, kings of desolate isles,Came round their great Pendragon, saying to him,"Lo, Sire, our knight, thro' whom we won the day,Hath gone sore wounded, and hath left his prizeUntaken, crying that his prize is death.""Heaven hinder," said the King, "that such an one, So great a knight as we have seen to-day--He seem'd to me another Lancelot--Yea, twenty times I thought him Lancelot--He must not pass uncared for. Wherefore, rise,O Gawain, and ride forth and find the knight.Wounded and wearied needs must he be near.I charge you that you get at once to horse.And, knights and kings, there breathes not one of youWill deem this prize of ours is rashly given:His prowess was too wondrous. We will do himNo customary honor: since the knightCame not to us, of us to claim the prize,Ourselves will send it after. Rise and takeThis diamond, and deliver it, and return,And bring us where he is, and how he fares,And cease not from your quest until ye find."

So saying, from the carven flower above,To which it made a restless heart, he took,And gave, the diamond: then from where he satAt Arthur's right, with smiling face arose,With smiling face and frowning heart, a PrinceIn the mid might and flourish of his May,Gawain, surnamed The Courteous, fair and strong,And after Lancelot, Tristram, and GeraintAnd Gareth, a good knight, but therewithalSir Modred's brother, and the child of Lot,Nor often loyal to his word, and nowWroth that the King's command to sally forthIn quest of whom he knew not, made him leaveThe banquet, and concourse of knights and kings.

So all in wrath he got to horse and went;While Arthur to the banquet, dark in mood,Past, thinking "Is it Lancelot who hath comeDespite the wound he spake of, all for gainOf glory, and hath added wound to wound,And ridd'n away to die?" So fear'd the King,And, after two days' tarriance there, return'd.Then when he saw the Queen, embracing ask'd,"Love, are you yet so sick?" "Nay, lord," she said."And where is Lancelot?" Then the Queen amazed,"Was he not with you? won he not your prize?""Nay, but one like him." "Why that like was he." And when the King demanded how she knew,Said, "Lord, no sooner had ye parted from us,Than Lancelot told me of a common talkThat men went down before his spear at a touch,But knowing he was Lancelot; his great nameConquer'd; and therefore would he hide his nameFrom all men, ev'n the King, and to this endHad made the pretext of a hindering wound,That he might joust unknown of all, and learnIf his old prowess were in aught decay'd;And added, 'Our true Arthur, when he learns,Will well allow my pretext, as for gainOf purer glory.'"

Then replied the King:"Far lovelier in our Lancelot had it been,In lieu of idly dallying with the truth,To have trusted me as he hath trusted thee.Surely his King and most familiar friendMight well have kept his secret. True, indeed,Albeit I know my knights fantastical,So fine a fear in our large LancelotMust needs have moved my laughter: now remainsBut little cause for laughter: his own kin--Ill news, my Queen, for all who love him, this!--His kith and kin, not knowing, set upon him;So that he went sore wounded from the field:Yet good news too: for goodly hopes are mineThat Lancelot is not more a lonely heart.He wore, against his wont, upon his helmA sleeve of scarlet, broider'd with great pearls,Some gentle maiden's gift."

"Yea, lord," she said,"Thy hopes are mine," and saying that, she choked,And sharply turn'd about to hide her face,Past to her chamber, and there flung herselfDown on the great King's couch, and writhed upon it,And clench'd her fingers till they bit the palm,And shriek'd out "Traitor" to the unhearing wall,Then flash'd into wild tears, and rose again,And moved about her palace, proud and pale.

Gawain the while thro' all the region roundRode with his diamond, wearied of the quest,Touch'd at all points, except the poplar grove,And came at last, tho' late, to Astolat:Whom glittering in enamell'd arms the maidGlanced at, and cried, "What news from Camelot, lord?What of the knight with the red sleeve?" "He won." "I knew it," she said. "But parted from the jousts Hurt in the side," whereat she caught her breath;Thro' her own side she felt the sharp lance go;Thereon she smote her hand: wellnigh she swoon'd:And, while he gazed wonderingly at her, cameThe Lord of Astolat out, to whom the PrinceReported who he was, and on what questSent, that he bore the prize and could not findThe victor, but had ridd'n a random roundTo seek him, and had wearied of the search.To whom the Lord of Astolat, "Bide with us,And ride no more at random, noble Prince!Here was the knight, and here he left a shield;This will he send or come for: furthermoreOur son is with him; we shall hear anon,Needs must we hear." To this the courteous PrinceAccorded with his wonted courtesy,Courtesy with a touch of traitor in it,And stay'd; and cast his eyes on fair Elaine:Where could be found face daintier? then her shapeFrom forehead down to foot, perfect--againFrom foot to forehead exquisitely turn'd:"Well--if I bide, lo! this wild flower for me!"And oft they met among the garden yews,And there he set himself to play upon herWith sallying wit, free flashes from a heightAbove her, graces of the court, and songs,Sighs, and slow smiles, and golden eloquenceAnd amorous adulation, till the maidRebell'd against it, saying to him, "Prince,O loyal nephew of our noble King,Why ask you not to see the shield he left,Whence you might learn his name? Why slight your KinAnd lose the quest he sent you on, and proveNo surer than our falcon yesterday,Who lost the hern we slipt her at, and wentTo all the winds?" "Nay, by mine head," said he, "I lose it, as we lose the lark in heaven,O damsel, in the light of your blue eyes;But an ye will it let me see the shield."And when the shield was brought, and Gawain sawSir Lancelot's azure lions, crown'd with gold,Ramp in the field, he smote his thigh, and mock'd:"Right was the King! our Lancelot! that true man!""And right was I," she answerd merrily, "I,Who dream'd my knight the greatest knight of all.""And if I dream'd," said Gawain, "that you love This greatest knight, your pardon! lo, ye know it!Speak therefore: shall I waste myself in vain?"Full simple was her answer, "What know I?My brethren have been all my fellowship;And I, when often they have talk'd of love,Wish'd it had been my mother, for they talk'd,Meseem'd, of what they knew not; so myself--I know not if I know what true love is,But if I know, then, if I love not him,I know there is none other I can love.""Yea, by God's death," said he, "ye love him well, But would not, knew ye what all others know,And whom he loves." "So be it," cried Elaine,And lifted her fair face and moved away:But he pursued her, calling, "Stay a little!One golden minute's grace! he wore your sleeve:Would he break faith with one I may not name?Must our true man change like a leaf at last?Nay--like enow: why then, far be it from meTo cross our mighty Lancelot in his loves!And, damsel, for I deem you know full wellWhere
your great knight is hidden, let me leaveMy quest with you; the
diamond also: here!For if you love, it will be sweet to give it;And
if he love, it will be sweet to have itFrom your own hand; and whether
he love or not,A diamond is a diamond. Fare you wellA thousand
times!--a thousand times farewell!Yet, if he love, and his love hold,
we twoMay meet at court hereafter: there, I think,So ye will learn
the courtesies of the court,We two shall know each other."

Then he gave,And slightly kiss'd the hand to which he gave,The diamond, and all wearied of the questLeapt on his horse, and carolling as he wentA true-love ballad, lightly rode away.

Thence to the court he past; there told the KingWhat the King knew, "Sir Lancelot is the knight."And added, "Sire, my liege, so much I learnt;But fail'd to find him, tho' I rode all roundThe region: but I lighted on the maidWhose sleeve he wore; she loves him; and to her,Deeming our courtesy is the truest law,I gave the diamond: she will render it;For by mine head she knows his hiding-place."

The seldom-frowning King frown'd, and replied,"Too courteous truly! ye shall go no moreOn quest of mine, seeing that ye forgetObedience is the courtesy due to kings."

He spake and parted. Wroth, but all in awe,For twenty strokes of the blood, without a word,Linger'd that other, staring after him;Then shook his hair, strode off, and buzz'd abroadAbout the maid of Astolat, and her love.All ears were prick'd at once, all tongues were loosed:"The maid of Astolat loves Sir Lancelot,Sir Lancelot loves the maid of Astolat."Some read the King's face, some the Queen's and allHad marvel what the maid might be, but mostPredoom'd her as unworthy. One old dameCame suddenly on the Queen with the sharp news.She, that had heard the noise of it before,But sorrowing Lancelot should have stoop'd so low,Marr'd her friend's aim with pale tranquillity.So ran the tale like fire about the court,Fire in dry stubble a nine-days' wonder flared:Till ev'n the knights at banquet twice or thriceForgot to drink to Lancelot and the Queen,And pledging Lancelot and the lily maidSmiled at each other, while the Queen, who satWith lips severely placid, felt the knotClimb in her throat, and with her feet unseenCrush'd the wild passion out against the floorBeneath the banquet, where the meats becameAs wormwood, and she hated all who pledged.

But far away the maid in Astolat,Her guiltless rival, she that ever keptThe one-day-seen Sir Lancelot in her heart,Crept to her father, while he mused alone,Sat on his knee, stroked his gray face and said,"Father, you call me wilful, and the faultIs yours who let me have my will, and now,Sweet father, will you let me lose my wits?""Nay," said he, "surely." "Wherefore, let me hence,"She answer'd, "and find out our dear Lavaine.""Ye will not lose your wits for dear Lavaine:Bide," answer'd he: "we needs must hear anonOf him, and of that other." "Ay," she said,"And of that other, for I needs must henceAnd find that other, wheresoe'er he be,And with mine own hand give his diamond to him,Lest I be found as faithless in the questAs yon proud Prince who left the quest to me.Sweet father, I behold him in my dreamsGaunt as it were the skeleton of himself,Death-pale, for lack of gentle maiden's aid.The gentler-born the maiden, the more bound,My father, to be sweet and serviceableTo noble knights in sickness, as ye knowWhen these have worn their tokens: let me henceI pray you." Then her father nodding said,"Ay, ay, the diamond: wit ye well, my child,Right fain were I to learn this knight were whole,Being our greatest: yea, and you must give it--And sure I think this fruit is hung too highFor any mouth to gape for save a queen's--Nay, I mean nothing: so then, get you gone,Being so very wilful you must go."

Lightly, her suit allow'd, she slipt away,And while she made her ready for her ride,Her father's latest word humm'd in her ear,"Being so very wilful you must go,"And changed itself and echo'd in her heart,"Being so very wilful you must die."But she was happy enough and shook it off,As we shake off the bee that buzzes at us;And in her heart she answer'd it and said,"What matter, so I help him back to life?"Then far away with good Sir Torre for guideRode o'er the long backs of the bushless downsTo Camelot, and before the city-gatesCame on her brother with a happy faceMaking a roan horse caper and curvetFor pleasure all about a field of flowers:Whom when she saw, "Lavaine," she cried, "Lavaine, How fares my lord Sir Lancelot?" He amazed,"Torre and Elaine! why here? Sir Lancelot!How know ye my lord's name is Lancelot?"But when the maid had told him all her tale,Then turn'd Sir Torre, and being in his moodsLeft them, and under the strange-statued gate,Where Arthur's wars were render'd mystically,Past up the still rich city to his kin,His own far blood, which dwelt at Camelot;And her, Lavaine across the poplar groveLed to the caves: there first she saw the casqueOf Lancelot on the wall: her scarlet sleeve,Tho' carved and cut, and half the pearls away,Stream'd from it still; and in her heart she laugh'd,Because he had not loosed it from his helm,But meant once more perchance to tourney in it.And when they gain'd the cell wherein he slept,His battle-writhen arms and mighty handsLay naked on the wolfskin, and a dreamOf dragging down his enemy made them move.Then she that saw him lying unsleek, unshorn,Gaunt as it were the skeleton of himself,Utter'd a little tender dolorous cry.The sound not wonted in a place so stillWoke the sick knight, and while he roll'd his eyesYet blank from sleep, she started to him, saying,"Your prize the diamond sent you by the King:"His eyes glisten'd: she fancied "Is it for me?"And when the maid had told him all the taleOf King and Prince, the diamond sent, the questAssign'd to her not worthy of it, she kneltFull lowly by the corners of his bed,And laid the diamond in his open hand.Her face was near, and as we kiss the childThat does the task assign'd, he kiss'd her face.At once she slipt like water to the floor."Alas," he said, "your ride hath wearied you.Rest must you have." "No rest for me," she said; "Nay, for near you, fair lord, I am at rest."What might she mean by that? his large black eyes,Yet larger thro' his leanness, dwelt upon her,Till all her heart's sad secret blazed itselfIn the heart's colours on her simple face;And Lancelot look'd and was perplext in mind,And being weak in body said no more;But did not love the colour; woman's love,Save one, he not regarded, and so turn'dSighing, and feign'd a sleep until he slept.

Then rose Elaine and glided thro' the fields,And past beneath the weirdly-sculptured gatesFar up the dim rich city to her kin;There bode the night: but woke with dawn, and pastDown thro' the dim rich city to the fields,Thence to the cave: so day by day she pastIn either twilight ghost-like to and froGliding, and every day she tended him,And likewise many a night: and Lancelot

Would, tho' he call'd his wound a little hurtWhereof he should be quickly whole, at timesBrain-feverous in his heat and agony, seemUncourteous, even he: but the meek maidSweetly forbore him ever, being to himMeeker than any child to a rough nurse,Milder than any mother to a sick child,And never woman yet, since man's first fall,Did kindlier unto man, but her deep loveUpbore her; till the hermit, skill'd in allThe simples and the science of that time,Told him that her fine care had saved his life.And the sick man forgot her simple blushWould call her friend and sister, sweet Elaine,Would listen for her coming and regretHer parting step, and held her tenderly,And loved her with all love except the loveOf man and woman when they love their best,Closest and sweetest, and had died the deathIn any knightly fashion for her sake.And peradventure had he seen her firstShe might have made this and that other worldAnother world for the sick man; but nowThe shackles of an old love straiten'd him,His honour rooted in dishonour stood,And faith unfaithful kept him falsely true.

Yet the great knight in his mid-sickness madeFull many a holy vow and pure resolve.These, as but born of sickness, could not live:For when the blood ran lustier in him again,Full often the bright image of one face,Making a treacherous quiet in his heart,Dispersed his resolution like a cloud.Then if the maiden, while that ghostly graceBeam'd on his fancy, spoke, he answer'd not,Or short and coldly, and she knew right wellWhat the rough sickness meant, but what this meantShe knew not, and the sorrow dimm'd her sight,And drave her ere her time across the fieldsFar into the rich city, where aloneShe murmur'd, "Vain, in vain: it cannot be.He will not love me: how then? must I die?"Then as a little helpless innocent bird,That has but one plain passage of few notes,Will sing the simple passage o'er and o'erFor all an April morning, till the earWearies to hear it, so the simple maidWent half the night repeating, "Must I die?"And now to right she turn'd, and now to left,And found no ease in turning or in rest;And "Him or death," she mutter'd, "death or him," Again and like a burthen, "Him or death."

But when Sir Lancelot's deadly hurt was whole,To Astolat returning rode the three.There morn by morn, arraying her sweet selfIn that wherein she deem'd she look'd her best,She came before Sir Lancelot, for she thought"If I be loved, these are my festal robes,If not, the victim's flowers before he fall."And Lancelot ever prest upon the maidThat she should ask some goodly gift of himFor her own self or hers; "and do not shunTo speak the wish most near to your true heart;Such service have ye done me, that I makeMy will of yours, and Prince and Lord am IIn mine own land, and what I will I can."Then like a ghost she lifted up her face,But like a ghost without the power to speak.And Lancelot saw that she withheld her wish,And bode among them yet a little spaceTill he should learn it; and one morn it chancedHe found her in among the garden yews,And said, "Delay no longer, speak your wish,Seeing I go to-day:" then out she brake:"Going? and we shall never see you more.And I must die for want of one bold word.""Speak: that I live to hear," he said, "is yours." Then suddenly and passionately she spoke:"I have gone mad. I love you: let me die.""Ah, sister," answer'd Lancelot, "what is this?" And innocently extending her white arms,"Your love," she said, "your love--to be your wife." And Lancelot answer'd, "Had I chosen to wed,I had been wedded earlier, sweet Elaine:But now there never will be wife of mine.""No, no," she cried, "I care not to be wife,But to be with you still, to see your face,To serve you, and to follow you thro' the world."And Lancelot answer'd, "Nay, the world, the world,All ear and eye, with such a stupid heartTo interpret ear and eye, and such a tongueTo blare its own interpretation--nay,Full ill then should I quit your brother's love,And your good father's kindness." And she said,"Not to be with you, not to see your face--Alas for me then, my good days are done.""Nay, noble maid," he answer'd, "ten times nay! This is not love: but love's first flash in youth,Most common: yea, I know it of mine own self:And you yourself will smile at your own selfHereafter,
when you yield your flower of lifeTo one more fitly yours, not thrice
your age:And then will I, for true you are and sweetBeyond mine
old belief in womanhood,More specially should your good knight be
poor,Endow you with broad land and territoryEven to the half my
realm beyond the seas,So that would make you happy; furthermore,Ev'n
to the death, as tho' ye were my blood,In all your quarrels will I be
your knight.This will I do, dear damsel, for your sake,And more
than this I cannot."

While he spokeShe neither blush'd nor shook, but deathly-paleStood grasping what was nearest, then replied:"Of all this will I nothing;" and so fell,And thus they bore her swooning to her tower.

Then spake, to whom thro' those black walls of yewTheir talk had pierced, her father: "Ay, a flash,I fear me, that will strike my blossom dead.Too courteous are ye, fair Lord Lancelot.I pray you, use some rough discourtesyTo blunt or break her passion."

Lancelot said,"That were against me: what I can I will;"And there that day remain'd, and toward evenSent for his shield: full meekly rose the maid,Stript off the case, and gave the naked shield;Then, when she heard his horse upon the stones,Unclasping flung the casement back, and look'dDown on his helm, from which her sleeve had gone.And Lancelot knew the little clinking sound;And she by tact of love was well awareThat Lancelot knew that she was looking at him.And yet he glanced not up, nor waved his hand,Nor bade farewell, but sadly rode away.This was the one discourtesy that he used.

So in her tower alone the maiden sat:His very shield was gone; only the case,Her own poor work, her empty labour, left.But still she heard him, still his picture form'dAnd grew between her and the pictured wall.Then came her father, saying in low tones,"Have comfort," whom she greeted quietly.Then came her brethren saying, "Peace to thee,Sweet sister," whom she answer'd with all calm.But when they left her to herself again,Death, like a friend's voice from a distant fieldApproaching thro' the darkness, call'd; the owlsWailing had power upon her, and she mixtHer fancies with the sallow-rifted gloomsOf evening, and the moanings of the wind.

And in those days she made a little song,And call'd her song "The Song of Love and Death,"And sang it: sweetly could she make and sing.

"Sweet is true love tho' given in vain, in vain; And sweet is death who puts an end to pain:I know not which is sweeter, no, not I.

"Love, art thou sweet? then bitter death must be: Love, thou art bitter; sweet is death to me.O Love, if death be sweeter, let me die.

"Sweet love, that seems not made to fade away,Sweet death, that seems to make us loveless clay,I know not which is sweeter, no, not I.

"I fain would follow love, if that could be;I needs must follow death, who calls for me;Call and I follow, I follow! let me die."

High with the last line scaled her voice, and this,All in a fiery dawning wild with windThat shook her tower, the brothers heard, and thoughtWith shuddering, "Hark the Phantom of the houseThat ever shrieks before a death," and call'dThe father, and all three in hurry and fearRan to her, and lo! the blood-red light of dawnFlared on her face, she shrilling, "Let me die!"

As when we dwell upon a word we know,Repeating, till the word we know so wellBecomes a wonder, and we know not why,So dwelt the father on her face, and thought"Is this Elaine?" till back the maiden fell,Then gave a languid hand to each, and lay,Speaking a still goodmorrow with her eyes.At last she said, "Sweet brothers, yesternightI seem'd a curious little maid again,As happy as when we dwelt among the woods,And when ye used to take me with the floodUp the great river in the boatman's boat.Only ye would not pass beyond the capeThat has the poplar on it: there ye fixtYour limit, oft returning with the tide.And yet I cried because ye would not passBeyond it, and far up the shining flood

Until we found the palace of the King.And yet ye would not; but this night I dream'dThat I was all alone upon the flood,And then I said, 'Now shall I have my will:'And there I woke, but still the wish remain'd.So let me hence that I may pass at lastBeyond the poplar and far up the flood,Until I find the palace of the King.There will I enter in among them all,And no man there will dare to mock at me;But there the fine Gawain will wonder at me,And there the great Sir Lancelot muse at me;Gawain, who bade a thousand farewells to me,Lancelot, who coldly went, nor bade me one:And there the King will know me and my love,And there the Queen herself will pity me,And all the gentle court will welcome me,And after my long voyage I shall rest!"

"Peace," said her father, "O my child, ye seem Light-headed, for what force is yours to goSo far, being sick? and wherefore would ye lookOn this proud fellow again, who scorns us all?"

Then the rough Torre began to heave and move,And bluster into stormy sobs and say,"I never loved him: an I meet with him,I care not howsoever great he be,Then will I strike at him and strike him down,Give me good fortune, I will strike him dead,For this discomfort he hath done the house."

To whom the gentle sister made reply,"Fret not yourself, dear brother, nor be wroth,Seeing it is no more Sir Lancelot's faultNot to love me, than it is mine to loveHim of all men who seems to me the highest."

"Highest?" the father answer'd, echoing "highest?" (He meant to break the passion in her) "nay,Daughter, I know not what you call the highest;But this I know, for all the people know it,He loves the Queen, and in an open shame:And she returns his love in open shame;If this be high, what is it to be low?"

Then spake the lily maid of Astolat:"Sweet father, all too faint and sick am IFor anger: these are slanders: never yetWas noble man but made ignoble talk.He makes no friend who never made a foe.But now it is my glory to have lovedOne peerless, without stain: so let me pass,My father, howsoe'er I seem to you,Not all unhappy, having loved God's bestAnd greatest, tho' my love had no return:Yet, seeing you desire your child to live,Thanks, but you work against your own desire;For if I could believe the things you sayI should but die the sooner; wherefore cease,Sweet father, and bid call the ghostly manHither, and let me shrive me clean, and die."

So when the ghostly man had come and gone,She with a face, bright as for sin forgiven,Besought Lavaine to write as she devisedA letter, word for word; and when he ask'd"Is it for Lancelot, is it for my dear lord?Then will I bear it gladly;" she replied,"For Lancelot and the Queen and all the world,But I myself must bear it." Then he wroteThe letter she devised; which being writAnd folded, "O sweet father, tender and true,Deny me not," she said--"ye never yetDenied my fancies--this, however strange,My latest: lay the letter in my handA little ere I die, and close the handUpon it; I shall guard it even in death.And when the heat is gone from out my heart,Then take the little bed on which I diedFor Lancelot's love, and deck it like the Queen'sFor richness, and me also like the QueenIn all I have of rich, and lay me on it.And let there be prepared a chariot-bierTo take me to the river, and a bargeBe ready on the river, clothed in black.I go in state to court, to meet the Queen.There surely I shall speak for mine own self,And none of you can speak for me so well.And therefore let our dumb old man aloneGo with me, he can steer and row, and heWill guide me to that palace, to the doors."

She ceased: her father promised; whereuponShe grew so cheerful that they deem'd her deathWas rather in the fantasy than the blood.But ten slow mornings past, and on the eleventhHer father laid the letter in her hand,And closed the hand upon it, and she died.So that day there was dole in Astolat.

But when the next sun brake from underground,Then, those two brethren slowly with bent browsAccompanying, the sad chariot-bierPast like a shadow thro' the field, that shoneFull-summer, to that stream whereon the barge,Pall'd all its length in blackest samite, lay.There sat the lifelong creature of the house,Loyal, the dumb old servitor, on deck,Winking his eyes, and twisted all his face.So those two brethren from the chariot tookAnd on the black decks laid her in her bed,Set in her hand a lily, o'er her hungThe silken case with braided blazonings,And kiss'd her quiet brows, and saying to her"Sister, farewell for ever," and again"Farewell, sweet sister," parted all in tears.Then rose the dumb old servitor, and the dead,Oar'd by the dumb, went upward with the flood--In her right hand the lily, in her leftThe letter--all her bright hair streaming down--And all the coverlid was cloth of goldDrawn to her waist, and she herself in whiteAll but her face, and that clear-featured faceWas lovely, for she did not seem as dead,But half asleep, and lay as tho' she smiled.

That day Sir Lancelot at the palace cravedAudience of Guinevere, to give at lastThe price of half a realm, his costly gift,Hard-won and hardly won with bruise and blow,With deaths of others, and almost his own,The nine-years-fought-for diamonds: for he sawOne of her house, and sent him to the QueenBearing his wish, whereto the Queen agreedWith such and so unmoved a majestyShe might have seem'd her statue, but that he,Low-drooping till he wellnigh kiss'd her feetFor loyal awe, saw with a sidelong eyeThe shadow of some piece of pointed lace,In the Queen's shadow, vibrate on the walls,And parted, laughing in his courtly heart.

All in an oriel on the summer side,Vine-clad, of Arthur's palace toward the stream,They met, and Lancelot kneeling utter'd, "Queen,Lady, my liege, in whom I have my joy,Take, what I had not won except for you,These jewels, and make me happy, making themAn armlet for the roundest arm on earth,Or necklace for a neck to which the swan'sIs tawnier than her cygnet's: these are words:Your beauty is your beauty, and I sinIn speaking, yet O grant my worship of itWords, as we grant grief tears. Such sin in wordsPerchance, we both can pardon: but, my Queen,I hear of rumours flying thro' your court.Our bond, as not the bond of man and wife,Should have in it an absoluter trustTo make up that defect: let rumours be:When did not rumours fly? these, as I trustThat you trust me in your own nobleness,I may not well believe that you believe."

While thus he spoke, half turn'd away, the QueenBrake from the vast oriel-embowering vineLeaf after leaf, and tore, and cast them off,Till all the place whereon she stood was green;Then, when he ceased, in one cold passive hand
Received at once and laid aside the gemsThere on a table near her, and replied:

"It may be, I am quicker of beliefThan you believe me, Lancelot of the Lake.Our bond is not the bond of man and wife.This good is in it, whatsoe'er of ill,It can be broken easier. I for youThis many a year have done despite and wrongTo one whom ever in my heart of heartsI did acknowledge nobler. What are these?Diamonds for me! they had been thrice their worthBeing your gift, had you not lost your own.To loyal hearts the value of all giftsMust vary as the giver's. Not for me!For her! for your new fancy. Only thisGrant me, I pray you: have your joys apart.I doubt not that however changed, you keepSo much of what is graceful: and myselfWould shun to break those bounds of courtesyIn which as Arthur's Queen I move and rule:So cannot speak my mind. An end to this!A strange one! yet I take it with Amen.So pray you, add my diamonds to her pearls;Deck her with these; tell her she shines me down:An armlet for an arm to which the Queen'sIs haggard, or a necklace for a neckO as much fairer--as a faith once fairWas richer than these diamonds--hers not mine--Nay, by the mother of our Lord himself,--Or hers or mine, mine now to work my will--She shall not have them."

Saying which she seized, And, thro' the casement standing wide for heat, Flung them, and down they flash'd, and smote the stream.Then from the smitten surface flash'd, as it were,Diamonds to meet them, and they past away.Then while Sir Lancelot leant, in half disdainAt love, life, all things, on the window ledge,Close underneath his eyes, and right acrossWhere these had fallen, slowly past the bargeWhereon the lily maid of AstolatLay smiling, like a star in blackest night.

But the wild Queen, who saw not, burst awayTo weep and wail in secret; and the barge,On to the palace-doorway sliding, paused.There two stood arm'd, and kept the door; to whom, All up the marble stair, tier over tier,Were added mouths that gaped, and eyes that ask'd"What is it?" but that oarsman's haggard face,As hard and still as is the face that menShape to their fancy's eye from broken rocksOn some cliff-side, appall'd them, and they said,"He is enchanted, cannot speak--and she,Look how she sleeps--the Fairy Queen, so fair!Yea, but how pale! what are they? flesh and blood?Or come to take the King to Fairyland?For some do hold our Arthur cannot die,But that he passes into Fairyland."

While thus they babbled of the King, the KingCame girt with knights: then turn'd the tongueless manFrom the half-face to the full eye, and roseAnd pointed to the damsel, and the doors.So Arthur bade the meek Sir PercivaleAnd pure Sir Galahad to uplift the maid;And reverently they bore her into hall.Then came the fine Gawain and wonder'd at her,And Lancelot later came and mused at herAnd last the Queen herself, and pitied her:But Arthur spied the letter in her hand,Stoopt, took, brake seal, and read it; this was all:

"Most noble lord, Sir Lancelot of the Lake,I, sometime call'd the maid of Astolat,Come, for you left me taking no farewell,Hither, to take my last farewell of you.I loved you, and my love had no return,And therefore my true love has been my death.And therefore to our Lady Guinevere,And to all other ladies, I make moan:Pray for my soul, and yield me burial.Pray for my soul thou too, Sir Lancelot,As thou art a knight peerless."

Thus he read;And ever in the reading, lords and damesWept, looking often from his face who readTo hers which lay so silent, and at times,So touch'd were they, half-thinking that her lips,Who had devised the letter, moved again.

Then freely spoke Sir Lancelot to them all:"My lord liege Arthur, and all ye that hear,Know that for this most gentle maiden's deathRight heavy am I; for good she was and true,But loved me with a love beyond all loveIn women, whomsoever I have known.Yet to be loved makes not to love again;Not at my years, however it hold in youth.I swear by truth and knighthood that I gaveNo cause, not willingly, for such a love:To this I call my friends in testimony,Her brethren, and her father, who himselfBesought me to be plain and blunt, and use,To break her passion, some discourtesyAgainst my nature: what I could, I did.I left her and I bade her no farewell;Tho', had I dreamt the damsel would have died,I might have put my wits to some rough use,And help'd her from herself."

Then said the Queen--Sea was her wrath, yet working after storm:"Ye might at least have done her so much grace,Fair lord, as would have help'd her from her death."He raised his head, their eyes met and hers fell,He adding,

"Queen, she would not be contentSave that I wedded her, which could not be.Then might she follow me thro' the world, she ask'd;It could not be. I told her that her loveWas but the flash of youth, would darken downTo rise hereafter in a stiller flameToward one more worthy of her--then would I,More specially were he, she wedded, poor,Estate them with large land and territoryIn mine own realm beyond the narrow seas,To keep them in all joyance: more than thisI could not; this she would not, and she died."

He pausing, Arthur answer'd, "O my knight,It will be to thy worship, as my knight,And mine, as head of all our Table Round,To see that she be buried worshipfully."

So toward that shrine which then in all the realmWas richest, Arthur leading, slowly wentThe marshall'd Order of their Table Round,And Lancelot sad beyond his wont, to seeThe maiden buried, not as one unknown,Nor meanly, but with gorgeous obsequies,And mass, and rolling music, like a queen.And when the knights had laid her comely headLow in the dust of half-forgotten kings,Then Arthur spake among them, "Let her tombBe costly, and her image thereupon,And let the shield of Lancelot at her feetBe carven, and her lily in her hand.And let the story of her dolorous voyageFor all true hearts be blazon'd on her tombIn letters gold and azure!" which was wroughtThereafter; but when now the lords and damesAnd people, from the high door streaming, brakeDisorderly, as homeward each, the Queen,Who mark'd Sir Lancelot where he moved apart,Drew near, and sigh'd in passing, "Lancelot,Forgive me; mine was jealousy in love."He answer'd with his eyes upon the ground,"That is love's curse; pass on, my Queen, forgiven." But Arthur, who beheld his cloudy brows,Approach'd him, and with full affection said,

"Lancelot, my Lancelot, thou in whom I haveMost joy and most affiance, for I knowWhat thou hast been in battle by my side,And many a time have watch'd thee at the tiltStrike down the lusty and long practised knight,And let the younger and unskill'd go byTo win his honour and to make his name,And loved thy courtesies and thee, a manMade to be loved; but now I would to God,Seeing the homeless trouble in thine eyes,Thou couldst have loved this maiden, shaped, it seems,By God for thee alone, and from her face,If one may judge the living by the dead,Delicately pure and marvellously fair,Who might have brought thee, now a lonely manWifeless and heirless, noble issue, sonsBorn to the glory of thy name and fame,My knight, the great Sir Lancelot of the Lake."

Then answer'd Lancelot, "Fair she was, my King,Pure, as you ever wish your knights to be.To doubt her fairness were to want an eye,To doubt her pureness were to want a heart--Yea, to be loved, if what is worthy loveCould bind him, but free love will not be bound.""Free love, so bound, were freŽst," said the King. "Let love be free; free love is for the best:And, after heaven on our dull side of death,What should be best, if not so pure a loveClothed in so pure a loveliness? yet theeShe fail'd to bind, tho' being, as I think,Unbound as yet, and gentle, as I know."

And Lancelot answer'd nothing, but he went,And at the inrunning of a little brookSat by the river in a cove, and watch'dThe high reed wave, and lifted up his eyesAnd saw the barge that brought her moving down,Far-off, a blot upon the stream, and saidLow in himself, "Ah simple heart and sweet,Ye loved me, damsel, surely with a loveFar tenderer than my Queen's. Pray for thy soul?Ay, that will I. Farewell too--now at last--Farewell, fair lily. 'Jealousy in love?'Not rather dead love's harsh heir, jealous pride?Queen, if I grant the jealousy as of love,May not your crescent fear for name and fameSpeak, as it waxes, of a love that wanes?Why did the King dwell on my name to me?Mine own name shames me, seeming a reproach,Lancelot, whom the Lady of the LakeCaught from his mother's arms--the wondrous oneWho passes thro' the vision of the night--She chanted snatches of mysterious hymnsHeard on the winding waters, eve and mornShe kiss'd me saying, 'Thou art fair, my child,As a king's son,' and often in her armsShe bare me, pacing on the dusky mere.Would she had drown'd me in it, where'er it be!For what am I? what profits me my nameOf greatest knight? I fought for it, and have it:Pleasure to have it, none; to lose it, pain;Now grown a part of me: but what use in it?To make men worse by making my sin known?Or sin seem less, the sinner seeming great?Alas for Arthur's greatest knight, a manNot after Arthur's heart! I needs must breakThese bonds that so defame me: not withoutShe wills it: would I, if she will'd it? nay,Who knows? but if I would not, then may God,I pray him, send a sudden Angel downTo seize me by the hair and bear me far,And fling me deep in that forgotten mere,Among the tumbled fragments of the hills."

So groan'd Sir Lancelot in remorseful pain,Not knowing he should die a holy man.